The Three Laws
by Saucery
Summary: Merlin is a recalcitrant and terribly incompetent robot. Arthur is his secretly adoring master. Arthurian legend meets Asimov meets Harlequin in this tale of forbidden romance!


**THE THREE LAWS  
**

**- Chapter I -**

**The First Law  
**

**

* * *

**

"This tastes like rat stew," Arthur spat. He literally _spat_ - he couldn't hold that stringy meat in his mouth a moment longer.

"That would be because," Merlin said in his perpetual monotone, "it is indeed rat stew, Sire."

"Don't they have anything else left in the stores?"

"The grain is gone. Only rats remain." Merlin tilted his head in the way that signaled his usual befuddlement at Arthur's insufferably human antics.

_I bet he's wondering what's so dissatisfying about rats,_ Arthur thought.

"There is nothing dissatisfying about rats," Merlin said, right on cue. "They have a high nutritional quotient and do, upon calculation, provide greater sustenance than a single cup of grain. A rat provides 72.8% more of the recommended daily intake of complex lipids and essential proteins than does a similar serving of grain. Perhaps rats should be made part of the standard castle menu."

Arthur dropped his head onto the table. His forehead made a satisfying _thunk_ against it, and the sound momentarily distracted him from the hell that was his life.

The thing was, if Merlin were _human_, Arthur could've imagined that he was actually being sarcastic. However, Merlin being... what he was, every single word he said was dead serious. Arthur wasn't sure if that made him funnier or more unbearable - or both.

"You don't have taste-buds," Arthur muttered. "You don't understand. And also, if you tell the kitchen bots to cook rats on a regular basis, I'll have you decommissioned. Permanently."

There was a silence.

A very _long_ silence.

Arthur looked up. Merlin couldn't have _believed_ that, could he? But yes - that was Merlin's I'm-agonized-but-don't-know-how-to-show-it look. His shoulders were perhaps a jot stiffer than usual; his face a little blanker. Arthur could've sworn he could _hear_ those positronic circuits whizzing away in Merlin's mechanized brain, formulating and discarding one argument after another. Arguments to keep himself alive - gods, as if Arthur would - as if Arthur _could_ -

"Stop that," Arthur snapped, and Merlin started. His dark eyes, each ringed with the metallic tint of gold-plated duridium, swung to focus on Arthur's. The apertures of his pupils contracted. Arthur hated it when they did that; he felt like a worm under a microscope. A very _prized_ worm, but a worm nonetheless - more like a precious and mystifying science project than a human being.

"Stop what, Sire?"

"That thing you do. With the feedback loops."

Merlin tilted his head again. "I was, in fact, looping. How did you know, my lord?"

"I know these things," Arthur glowered. "I am your master. And as your master, there's absolutely no _way_ I'm having you decommissioned. For any reason. Understand?"

"I do not understand." Despite his default monotone, Merlin somehow ended up sounding mulish and plaintive at once - as if he just wanted his human to make _sense_. "You said that you would have me decommissioned if I tell the kitchen bots to cook rats on a regular basis."

Arthur sighed, slumping back in his chair. "So you _are_ going to tell the bots to do that?"

"Of course I am. It would be beneficial to your diet."

"I command you not to tell them."

"I will tell them."

"Do you not _get it_, Merlin? I'm your master! And I'm _commanding_ you not to tell them!"

There was a short lapse in which Merlin's programming to unquestionably obey primary directives was tested against Merlin's will - and found wanting. Damn it, more feedback loops. Eventually, Merlin repeated, slightly unsteadily, "I will tell them."

It really wouldn't do any good to throw things at Merlin. Or _throttle_ the bastard. "Is this like that time you risked your life at the banquet with Balor's king? Or that time you explicitly disobeyed my command not to interfere with the Black Knight?"

"Exactly like that, Sire." Surety had returned to Merlin's voice. "Even more than obeying your directives, my first duty is to protect your safety. Your nutritional requirements are an integral component of your physical safety."

"So you'll force-feed me _swill_ if you think it's good for me."

"I will, Sire."

_I hate my life,_ Arthur thought - but was appalled to feel a secret thrill at the thought of how disobedient Merlin was. Arthur had had botservants before, but none had been quite so stubborn. Or even anywhere _near_ as stubborn. There was just... something about Merlin, wasn't there? "You're the most insubordinate machine in Camelot," Arthur groused, trying not to make it obvious that he was apparently a masochistic idiot who _enjoyed_ owning an insane robot.

"That is correct," Merlin replied. "Statistically speaking, I have disobeyed more direct orders from human beings and superior bots than have any other robots in the castle. Or in the entire city, for that matter."

Brilliant. "I suppose you have a percentage for that, too?"

"It is a curious coincidence," Merlin said, "but I have disobeyed exactly 72.8% more orders than have other bots."

"Really?" That was odd. Rats and robots, having exactly the same data - although both were pests, in their own ways.

"No." Merlin tilted his head to the _other_ side. "I was attempting to make a joke, Sire. I thought you would recognize it."

Arthur glared. "How was I supposed to recognize it? You've never made a joke before." So that's what the opposing head-tilt meant. Arthur would have to make a note of it.

"It is about time I tried," Merlin said. "I am endeavoring to follow _The Robot's Manual For Better Service And Customer Satisfaction_, which states that sometimes, deviation from the facts is considered humorous. It is considered especially humorous if the facts are non-critical to the immediate or long-term survival of the human, and do not contradict prior patterns of revulsion or offense that the human has displayed to relevant stimuli. As our discussion of my disobedience is both non-critical to your well-being and non-offensive to you, I tried to be humorous. I deviated from the facts."

Ha. Clever. But... "Why? You don't have to amuse me." _Or rather, you already amuse me more than you know._

"Because I am insubordinate," Merlin explained, "by exactly 52.6% more than the average robot."

"This time, it's the truth?"

"It is the truth. And as I am more insubordinate than my peers, and you have said that you would have me decommissioned - "

"I said I _won't_ have you - "

" - I thought I might try to be a more pleasing robot in other ways."

What the... What the hell was _this_? Merlin didn't have to - he didn't - sod it, Arthur should never have mentioned the decommissioning thing. Robots were as sensitive about that as... well, as humans were about beheadings. Which made sense, really. Which made _Arthur_ a boor. An insensitive boor.

"I'm sorry," Arthur said, tersely. "I didn't mean it. Humans are like that, sometimes. Saying things they don't mean. Deviating from the facts, you know? And it - it was meant to be funny. But it wasn't, because it _was_ critical to your survival, and I... overlooked that. I don't know how to be humorous, obviously. Maybe I should borrow that manual of yours."

Merlin's shoulders eased. Imperceptibly. It was strange that, despite his being a machine, it was so easy to read Merlin's moods. Robots weren't _supposed_ to have moods, but Merlin did, like that time Arthur had killed a 'non-essential forest animal' and Merlin had skulked around like a particularly expressionless wounded bear. (_Harming the environment will eventually harm you,_ Merlin had said, sounding for all the world like a crazed Greenpeace activist. Sodding _hell_.)

And that wasn't all; there was also the time Merlin had attacked the visiting Princess Sophia, because he had somehow gathered the impression that her 'courtship' of Arthur was an assassination attempt in disguise. Well, Merlin had been _right_ about that, but it had nearly gotten him decommissioned anyhow; the First Law explicitly forbade a robot from harming a human being, and Merlin was now considered a dangerous renegade for being capable - even at the risk of a positronic breakdown - of doing just that.

Father thought it was ridiculous, Arthur keeping such a defective robot in his service, but Arthur couldn't imagine his life without those very defects. Unquestioning servility from anyone - robot or human - was more unpalatable to Arthur than a thousand of Merlin's idiosyncrasies.

"That is something you need not do." Merlin's voice had softened. _Lowered_, rather, but that was Merlin's version of softening it. "I am the inadequate one. I do not understand my master's sense of humor. But I will try to learn."

"You do that," Arthur said, gruffly. He pushed the rat stew away from him and got up. "And please, I'm _begging_ you, don't tell the bots to make more of this drivel."

"I cannot promise that," said Merlin, as blithely as if they hadn't just been talking about decommissions. "Actually, I can promise the exact opposite."

"What if I went down to the kitchens and ordered the cooks to disregard your instructions?"

Merlin's metal-rimmed eyes gleamed gold. Arthur _knew_ that look; it was a battle-ready look, and one that generally destroyed anything that stood in its path. Including Arthur's privileges of rank, apparently. "Then I would find a medical basis to overturn your orders. If need be, I would acquire a certificate from Physician Model G-17-X-2, which would invalidate your instructions and confirm mine. The kitchen bots are programmed to value health requirements above the personal whims of human beings."

"Stop calling Gaius by his model number," huffed Arthur. "It's creepy. And you couldn't possibly defeat _me_ in the rankings game. I would totally win over the kitchen bots."

"You would not."

"Dash it all, Merlin! How far will you go to defy me?"

"As far as mechanically possible." Merlin paused. "Which is really quite far, Sire. Even if you do win over the kitchen bots - which is unlikely, at a projected probability of 0.12% - I would still prevent any non-nutritious food from ever reaching your quarters. Before you could ingest it, I would already have replaced it with a meal that I myself would have prepared, at least an hour beforehand."

"A meal with rats in it."

"Indeed. Until normal meat supplies are restored, you will be eating rats."

"Is there no way around this?"

"None at all, Sire." Merlin sounded absolutely sure of himself - which, in robot-speak, meant that he was _very_ happy. "Resign yourself."

"Resign? Perhaps I'll abdicate." If he was a peasant, he could at least damn well choose to starve instead of eating rats, couldn't he? Only princes had daft, demoralizing, blindly devoted botservants.

"That is inadvisable. King Uther would be most disappointed. And the king's disappointment usually leads to quality time - " here, Merlin halted for what he obviously thought was dramatic effect, according to that stupid robot manual of his " - in the stocks."

Arthur sighed. "Do you _really_ want me to decommission you?"

"You are joking," Merlin correctly surmised, with the sort of deadpan sense of accomplishment that rather killed Arthur's joke. "And at any rate, it is not decommissioning that I fear. It is being put out of service, and therefore being unable to protect you when the situation calls for it."

This. Arthur didn't need to hear this. Didn't Merlin _understand_? Arthur despised the very idea that Merlin valued Arthur's life above his own. Which was childish of Arthur, he knew, considering that the kingdom's constitution didn't even consider robots as living things - but he couldn't help it. Merlin had simply been with him too long; Arthur couldn't think of him as an expendable tool. "That's arrogant of you. Can't stand to be decommissioned because you think you can't be _replaced_? Do you really think you're the best bot to protect me?"

"The only one that can defy you when you need to be defied. So, yes, Sire. The best bot to protect you."

A strange tangle of emotions twisted Arthur's face. He turned around, before Merlin could see that expression and file it away in his massive internal Arthur-library of expressions and matching interpretations, of stimuli-recordings and appropriate responses. On the one hand, it was comforting to be so totally _known_ by another sentient being; on the other hand, it was painfully uncomfortable. There were times when those mechanized eyes made Arthur feel more vulnerable, more terribly transparent, than anyone else's.

_But he isn't anyone else_, Arthur thought, sickened. _He's any_thing_ else. And that's what Father keeps telling you, isn't it, Arthur? Get your sodding head in order._ He realized that his hands had fisted, and forced himself to relax them.

"Clear the dishes," Arthur barked. "I'm done with dinner."

"Yes, Sire." Merlin must be satisfied that Arthur had eaten enough; at least Arthur wasn't being forced to stomach _more_ of that tripe.

Arthur walked over to his desk, leaving the hated stew far behind him, and picked up a data-pad. It had the most recent news on the radiation leak; he thumbed each graph and chart as it flickered across the screen, searching for data on how the fields were recovering after the explosion at Agrocorp Nuclear-Powered Facility. It had been the most devastating industrial accident in Camelot since the 22nd century - and Arthur felt helpless, horribly helpless, at being able to do nothing but wait.

A hand settled on Arthur's shoulder. He jumped.

"It will be all right, Sire. The radiation has been contained; the soil need only fallow before it can be farmed again. Camelot will survive until then."

"I thought I told you to clear away the dishes," Arthur said, refusing to turn and meet those unnervingly all-knowing eyes.

The hand moved from Arthur's shoulder, not away but _upwards_, until the cool, synthetic skin of Merlin's palm brushed Arthur's nape.

Arthur sucked in a breath. Merlin didn't _know_ - surely, he couldn't - no, he probably didn't even understand what that _meant_. It must be Merlin's bizarre interpretation of what his manual said was comforting behavior.

"Of course, my lord." The palm removed itself; Merlin's voice retained its unaffected monotone. "I shall do so now."

* * *

"I can't believe you let that happen to him!" Morgana hissed in an enraged whisper.

"I didn't _let_ anything happen to him! Who told the idiot to go and stand in the path of a bloody _cluster bomb_?"

"You know he'd do anything for you," Morgana accused, "and you still took him with you into a conflict zone. He's a personal servant, Arthur, not a battle droid."

"I know that." Arthur dug his fingers into the bedstead where Merlin lay, hooked up to more wires than Arthur had ever seen attached to a single entity - human or otherwise. "I _know_ that. Just... Do you honestly think he'd have let me go alone? Even if I commanded him to stay? He'd have - he'd have _followed_ me - he always - " Damn it, his voice was trembling; he couldn't stop it from trembling. Every time he looked at Merlin - patches of skin torn and singed, showing damaged circuitry - he felt ill. It was ridiculous; he'd seen humans bleed to _death_ in front of him and been more composed than this.

"Arthur." Morgana's eyes gentled as she took in Arthur's state; gods, this was humiliating. "I know he's stubborn. But perhaps you could lock him up when you - "

"What, and have him _break his stupid arms_ trying to escape so he could get to me?"

Now Morgana looked ill, too. "He's too attached to you. He isn't a normal robot."

Arthur laughed shakily. "You don't say. He disobeys 52.6% more of his orders than all the other robots do."

Morgana blinked. "What?"

"Never mind." Arthur was feeling dizzy. He gripped the bedstead tighter. "Leave us alone, would you?"

Giving him a last, careful look, Morgana finally left. Arthur wondered if her own botservant, Gwen, was even a fraction of the handful that Merlin was. Probably not; Merlin was a freak, an anomaly if there ever was one. It was just Arthur's luck that he was saddled with the anomaly. With the robot that was more like a mother hen - or a mother _bear_ - than a proper servant. Leaping into the path of a fucking cluster bomb...

"You're the worst servant I've ever had," Arthur said to Merlin, trying to look at Merlin's face and not at the horrible mess of wires that was his mangled neck. "And if you don't wake up _right now_, I'll decommission you myself. Who'll do your job, then, eh? Didn't you say you were the best at it?"

"He can't hear you, Sire." That was Gaius, returning to the lab that also served as Camelot's repair station for damaged and malfunctioning bots. Gaius, being an advanced model with decades of experience behind him, was trusted with the most crucial medical emergencies in the castle, be they emergencies of the human or machine variety. "And, at any rate, I do not believe you are very convincing. Calling him the worst servant in one sentence, and the best servant in the next."

"He's both," Arthur croaked. "That's possible, isn't it?"

Gaius regarded Arthur; his face was impassive beneath his perpetually-cocked eyebrow. "Hm," he said, finally, and Arthur got the impression that this was Gaius's far more jaded reaction to human incomprehensibility. Arthur recalled Merlin's curious head-tilt, the one that somehow managed to convey everything from eagerness to forlorn abandonment, and felt his heart wrench. "You must return to your duties, my lord," said Gaius. "Leave him to me."

Leave Merlin? Like this? He couldn't bear to. He _had_ to. He was the Crown Prince, and there was work to be done, and in the wake of the Agrocorp disaster, the Pendragons could hardly afford to have it said that their sole heir was utterly unmanned by the loss of a single bot.

"He isn't lost yet," Arthur said, without thinking; Gaius looked up at him again.

"Indeed, he is not, Sire. And he shall not be. Once his circuits are repaired, he will be restored to you in full functionality." A pause. "Perhaps I might issue you a replacement botservant in the meanwhile, Sire?"

A sick twist of denial surged through him; Arthur clenched his hands. "Of course," he said, aware that his voice was a tad too jagged. "That would be appropriate."

"There is a similar model, C-21-F-3, who goes by the name of Cedric. He was formerly in the service of Sir Exley, but upon the knight's passing, has become unattached. He has extensive experience in - "

"I don't need to hear it," Arthur cut him off. "Just find whatever you can." _Whatever_, he realized - because that's what bots had been to him, before he'd met Merlin - 'what', not 'who'. "Whoever you can," Arthur corrected. He really ought to chastise himself more for that error, Arthur knew, but he was tired and Merlin _still wasn't awake_ and Arthur couldn't stand around doing nothing, just waiting for the idiot to recover.

So he turned and left, thinking instead of the many things that had to be done: the digitization of old farm records; the stock-taking of the granaries; the distribution of updated health notices. Not to mention the restoration of the armory after this latest border conflict. The smithies would have to be supplied with renewed orders for the coming quarter. Chainmail; photon shields; hilted lasers. And shoes. Damn it, but their soldiers needed _shoes_. Arthur began drawing up another list for the tanneries.

And if he thought about Merlin at all that day, it was only when there was no irritating spill of wine at his elbow during meetings, and when he noticed the poorly-mended hole in his left boot.

Cedric, the temporary botservant, was pressed into his service that evening, and Arthur tried not to resent the fact that Cedric's polishing of his armor was perfectly, mechanically clean.

* * *

**to be continued.**

**

* * *

**

**Author's Note:**

As this story is inspired by Asimov, it would behoove me to list his Three Laws, upon which the title is based:

1. A robot may not injure a human being or, through inaction, allow a human being to come to harm.

2. A robot must obey orders given it by human beings except where such orders would conflict with the First Law.

3. A robot must protect its own existence as long as such protection does not conflict with the First or Second Law.

Hm. Not easy being a botservant, is it?

Please review if you want more!


End file.
